


Apples

by tigriswolf



Series: poetry [122]
Category: Schneewittchen | Snow White (Fairy Tale), Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
Genre: Fractured Fairy Tale, Gen, Poetry, Poison Apples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: Poison drips down her throat.





	Apples

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Apples  
> Written January 31, 2019  
> Prompt: descriptive, Snow White

Poison drips down her throat.  
  
The apple is crisp, juicy,         
            just a tiny bit sour,  
firm in her hand,  
            such a brilliant red.  
  
Too late, she recognizes those  
            cold, cold eyes.  
She collapses, the cruel laughter  
            loud in her ears.  
The apple still smells delicious  
            as it rolls from her fingers.  
  
She dreams—  
            dark hair and crimson drops  
                                    on virgin snow  
            a wish granted  
                                     and a life taken for the cost  
  
She dreams—  
            Silent  
            Stagnant  
                        —trapped in glass,  
                               no dancing, no music,  
                               no joy  
                       pinned like a butterfly in her stepmother’s web  
  
She wakes, jolted from dreaming,  
falls onto dirt and roots.  
She breathes deeply;  
the cool air soothes her still-burning throat.  
  
“My love!” she hears and looks up.  
His eyes are colder than his voice is warm.  
She gazes at him, his handsome face, his luxurious clothes  
            and feels poison  
                                    drip  
                                       down  
                                                  her  
                                                      throat.  
  
A deep breath fills her lungs.  
She gathers her feet beneath her,  
glancing at the men around what  
must be a prince, surrounding her, and again  
he proclaims, “My love!”  
  
                         _Love_ , she thinks.  _Love?_  
                                    —Am I dreaming still?  
  
She rises, noticing that the  
dress swirling around her ankles  
is not the  
ragged gown  
she wore when she  
bit into the apple.  
  
                        (How long did she sleep?)  
  
The prince holds out a hand,  
smooth and pale, fingers long and slim.  
  
She fled one cage,  
          was caught in another,  
                   and will not be trapped in a third.  
  
She smells apples on the air.  
Cold eyes pin her in place;  
the prince’s men murmur, stepping closer.  
The prince bares his teeth in a sharp smile.  
  
She takes a deep breath,  
                                        releases it slow.  
  
“I thank you, my lord,”  
           she says gracefully,

                                 softly,  
“for waking me.”  
  
And she runs.  
            She knows not how long she slept  
            but these trees she knows.  
  
The men follow, shouting—  
  
She darts into the woods,  
            freed by poison,  
                        the only kind thing her father’s wife has ever done.  
  
She dreams of poison d  
                                     r  
                                         i  
                                            p  
                                               p  
                                            i  
                                        n  
                                     g  
  
                                d  
                             o  
                         w  
                     n  
                        her throat  
                                     and wakes

ravenous.


End file.
